Four Felonious Crimes and a Misdemesnor
by justadram
Summary: A pirate commits felonies like a school boy commits sums to memory. Getting caught is inevitable, and having a heroine handy to save the day is just good practice. Jack/Elizabeth
1. Piracy Is Non Clergyable

Title: _Four Felonious Crimes and a Misdemesnor_

Author: just_a_dram

Fandom: PotC

Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth

Rating: T

Summary: A pirate commits felonies like a school boy commits sums to memory. Getting caught is inevitable, and having a heroine handy to save the day is just good practice.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction for which the author receives no compensation.

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><p><strong>Four Felonious Crimes and a Misdemesnor<strong>

I. Piracy Is Non-Clergyable

The wriggling maggots crawling atop his meager portion of porridge were enough to convince him that the French reputation for haute cuisine was overrated and that he was not particularly hungry after all. "Tell the _chef de cuisine_ this it not fit for man or beast," he called after the man who had tossed him the plate. "The roux is thin and the pastry dry." No matter: being a few pounds lighter when the noose tightened around his neck would not make much of a difference. He could go hungry for a few days more.

He slumped back against the humid wall of the gaol, his shackled hands limp at his side. _In murum strictum_ was so very tedious. He had never thought that he would long for the freedom of a nice English gaol, but these bloody _mestizos_ playing at being Frenchmen had him doing just that.

The chances had never been good that he would escape this fate. It was bound to be either death by the sword, sea, or a dance with Jack Ketch, and he had always known that piracy was a non-clergyable offense. It would do no good to masquerade as a clergyman one last time even though he looked rather smart in robes—or so the ladies had seemed to think.

Someone would have to sweep in and save him in a grand gesture of heroics if he was to survive this sentence. If he was waiting for Elizabeth Turner to turn up, he might be waiting until after Judgment Day, however. The last time he had seen her, he was pulling away from the island on which he had deposited her and her boy. After he had offered her a life of piracy and freedom upon the seas. After she had rejected his offer of a home upon the _Pearl_. Her eyes had seemed to say 'yes,' but…

_Will wouldn't want Jamie to be a pirate_.

"Bugger Will," Jack muttered in the darkness of his dank cell. That eunuch was still getting his way even though he was ferrying the dead for a living with his thump, thump stashed away in a trunk somewhere.

Instead, Elizabeth and the tot waited on an island with enough swag to keep them for at least a year or two. There had been nothing to do but captain the _Black Pearl_ without the benefit of her company until his compass refused to cooperate and he was drawn back to her shores for another attempt at friendly persuasion. That is, there had been no other plan until he found himself rotting behind bars on the island of Martinique.

Having given up trying to slip his shackles long ago, he now frittered the hours away by coming up with insulting nicknames for his gaolers—most of which were lost upon the uncultured sots, unknowledgeable in the English language as they were—and singing dirges and ditties to pass the time.

And waiting for rescue, for escape seemed unlikely.

Perhaps it was best that Lizzie and the child had not been aboard that day. What they had thought was a lumbering merchant vessel had turned out to be a privateer cruising the waters for gullible pirates such as those aboard the _Pearl_ to approach and board it. Jack turned his head and spit onto the rotting grub in disgust—pirating was pirating whether licensed or not. To some the _lettre de course_ carried by the arrogant bastard _corsair_ dignified the slaughter of Jack's shipmates as patriotic and honorable, the sinking of his _Pearl_ respectable. At least the unskilled, worthless cheat's hands would never caress his _Pearl's_ wheel. Better a watery grave for her than she be abused by someone as unseemly as to use cowardly ruses to capture fellow pirates. He wondered what his father's _Codex_ would say about that.

He had not even had the chance to turn tail and flee: his usual method of staying alive. The only thing that had saved him from being run through like the others was his worth—the bounty on his head seemingly had no ceiling, perpetually climbing over the years. The rest of the crew, however, were all dead: their blood had slicked the boards of the deceptive vessel until he had fallen to his knees amidst the fighting, been seized as he continued to try to slash at those that closed around him, and been bound. Every last one of them was dead and he found that taking some of the Frenchmen along with them to the Locker had been little consolation. Some of those pirates had been men he had sailed with for no more than a handful of months, others he had known for years. All dead. The prize—Captain Jack Sparrow—had been shackled so as to be brought to French colonial shores for justice.

All dead save Elizabeth, who was presumably safe and blissfully unaware of his situation upon the speck of land where he had left her, and therefore, had not chanced to share their fate. If he had gotten his way, she would have been aboard the _Pearl_ that day, and the idea of a rope around her slender, white neck did not sit well—almost as poorly as the idea of one around his own less well scrubbed one.

He could picture her alive, laughing or frowning, digging her feet into the powdery sand on that damnable island with the sun shining on her unbound hair and the smell of the sea clinging to her skin, and it brought him a strange kind of tranquility even in the rank confines of his cell. It would be too dramatic to whisper her name, but he found it on the tip of his tongue. A tongue he would most certainly use to lave and nibble her unbroken neck, tasting that pale skin if he was ever given the chance again.

Her presence on that island at very least left someone in this world who might take it into her mind to save him, selfish creature that he was.

It was unlikely, but Elizabeth Turner had saved him once before.


	2. Forging on Behalf of the Felonious

Chapter rating: T for innuendo

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><p><em>It was unlikely, but Elizabeth Turner had saved him once before...<em>

II. Forging on Behalf of the Felonious

"What's this?" Jack asked, tilting his tricorn back off his face and awkwardly standing as the gaoler unlocked his cell. "I wasn't to swing today."

"Nor shall you," the man grumbled.

Jack cupped his hand to his ear, pretending not to have heard, "Say that again, mate."

"Your neck is saved: done received a pardon," the man explained, pulling the barred gate open wide.

"From Good King Georgie himself?" Jack asked, as he swayed forward. He had an urge to make a dash for it, as it seemed unbelievable that he had gone from condemned to die to pardoned over night.

"Your wife gave witness." His gaoler seemed somewhat chagrined by this turn of events, as if he enjoyed his job just a hair too much and was mourning the loss of a condemned prisoner.

Jack brushed past the man, tapping his finger to his lips thoughtfully, "Me wife."

"Aye, your wife gave witness and you're well and good pardoned."

"That's interesting. My _pretty_ wife?" Jack questioned, outlining with his hands an imagined curvaceous female form in the air before him as he peered down the hallway to the gaol's entrance. If he had acquired a wife during his interment, he hoped she was pretty to look upon, lovely to touch, and quick to please. It made the prospect of freedom all the more alluring.

"A mite too pretty for such as you," the gaoler responded as the heavy gate swung closed behind Jack.

"I'm sure you're a real catch, mate," Jack winked. "She waitin' for me?"

"I reckon she won't be if you dawdle."

Jack patted his side, where he was missing his pistol, knife, and sword. "Me effects?"

The man simply responded with a rotting smile.

_Bugger_, he had liked that hanger sword.

"Get out o' here," the man grunted.

Jack needed no formal invitation: adjusting his hat so as to appear to his best advantage upon meeting his wife, he sashayed down the hall and down the stairs of the entrance one-two as quick as his legs could carry him. Blinking in the morning's uncommon sunshine, he squinted at the coach silhouetted before him. His wife seemed rather well appointed.

_All the better_.

The finely liveried postilion made no move to dismount or acknowledge his presence and no other servant appeared on hand to open the door of the coach. Jack was not one to stand on ceremony, however, so he moved to open the door and acquaint himself with his wife.

An unblemished face set with wide brown eyes and framed with honey blonde locks smiled out at him.

"Well, sink me." _ A pretty wife indeed._

"Hello, Jack. Or shall I refer to you as _John Smith_?"

He knew she lived nearby. The lure of Elizabeth's pert opinions and pouty lips were what had drawn him to these cold English shores again after all, but afterward he had not dared hope that she would hear of his incarceration or think to save him. He stood awestruck for a beat before recovering himself. "It was best not to betray my true identity, _Mistress Smith_," he said, removing his hat and bowing deeply with a clink of belts, buckles, and beads.

"Don't make a scene. Get inside," Elizabeth demanded with a bright smile that belied her tone.

_Gods! She could devour half the Caribbean with that mouth full of unspoiled teeth._ An up close inspection of them using his tongue was something he had spent no small amount of time contemplating. "As you will, wife of mine," he said, grabbing the door and swinging into the body of the coach.

Elizabeth pulled the door closed, straightened back up on her seat, and wrinkled her nose. "Oh, heavens, Jack: you smell absolutely wretched."

"The accommodations were subpar at best, I own. I shall complain to the king at once about the state of his gaols."

Elizabeth knocked on the roof and they jerked forward. "I'm sure he'll be sorry to hear it," she said with arched brows.

"In point of fact, he and I may not be on the best of terms presently. But I'm a sight for sore eyes, no doubt?" he smiled. She had saved him after all, showing no small regard for his person, and surely the blow dealt by the monstrously huge farmer had faded with time leaving him as appealingly handsome as ever if in need of a bath. "Aspirational, inspirational, perspirational."

"You're certainly a sight," she agreed noncommittally.

"How did you come to hear of my dire straits, incognito as I was?" he asked, removing his hat and setting it at his side.

"Well, let's see," she sighed, "I first heard from my aunt's estate manager that there was a sheep thief abroad in the next village and that it might be best to hire an additional man to have about the property so as to protect us."

Jack chuckled at the thought. Elizabeth would have little to fear from a sheep thief.

"Then the village children began to whisper that the sheep thief had the appearance of a dastardly pirate. Wiser heads deemed that folly, but I made inquiries and stumbled upon Mr. Gibbs in the neighborhood, trying rather unsuccessfully to hatch a plan to rescue you from your confines."

Jack stretched on the seat, arching a brow at her, as he extended a leg across the space between them so that the tip of his boot brushed her skirts. "You made inquiries, hoping it would be your dear old husband, Captain Jack, hmm?"

"I only said I was your wife, because it was the only way to extricate you." Elizabeth showed him a silver poesy ring on her left hand, "I'm already married if you recall. I'm not looking for another husband."

He wondered where she had gotten the band, for William Turner had not placed it on her finger in the midst of a battle. No doubt it was a part of the story she had told her aunt—sad, young widow, recently deprived of husband and father alike. "Ah, not looking to be a bigamist then? Well, I hate to share anyway," he said, chewing the nail on his pinky finger.

"We won't be sharing anything but this coach, Jack."

"Let's suspend that notion for the moment and hope for fairer conditions soon enough," Jack suggested.

"And you know," Elizabeth continued, heedless, "I think it was rather irresponsible—even for you—to bring Gibbs here in little more than a _jollyboat_…"

"Now," he interrupted with feigned affront, "it's a seaworthy Bermuda rig, Elizabeth, which cost us no small amount of coin to acquire in Brest."

"Coin? Didn't you steal it?"

Jack gave no response, facing the charges laid before him with a wide-eyed innocent stare. It had not worked with the judge, and seemingly, it did not work with Elizabeth either if her countenance gave any clue.

"You brought him in a _Bermuda rig_ and then abandoned him so that you could steal sheep. It sounds perfectly nonsensical."

"It only _sounds_ that way, but I assure you it was a perfectly logical, sensible, sound plan. I wasn't stealing them." Waving away Elizabeth's principal concern, he said, "Besides, Gibbs can take care of himself." And he was generally a good sport about being abandoned in tight spots: a useful characteristic for his mates to possess, otherwise unpleasantries would necessarily arise.

His eyes scanned her person. She had not changed in the slightest, although she was dressed a good deal more finely than the last time he had seen her. "Tell me how you pled for me before the judge, Lizzie. It would set me up quite nicely if I could picture it properly. Did you…get down on your knees?" he asked, his voice lowering with suggestion.

Elizabeth either failed to notice or purposefully ignored his impropriety, as she pressed on, "Come before a judge for all the village to see and tell him of my house full of children that the good taxpayers of England would have to support in the poor house should my ne'er-do-well husband hang for his crimes? Hardly. I wouldn't risk the life I've built here for Jamie and myself in so foolhardy a manner."

There was a child; he knew that much. There was Will's child, and therefore, she had risked a great deal to pluck this dirty pirate from the jaws of death. "And yet, I sit here before you," he said, gesturing from head to hip, "saved from the noose."

Elizabeth looked rather pleased with herself as she announced the truth: "I forged your pardon."

Jack looked down his nose at her, "Darlin', that's a felony. You could end up dancin' yourself for that."

"I'm perfectly aware of that, but I was a great deal smarter about it than you were about your animal theft. Besides, I couldn't let you hang. The King couldn't ignore the plight of one of her most infamous…"

Jack held up a hand to correct her, interrupting, "_Famous_, I assure you. Charismatic, dashing, heroic, possessing a certain _savoir-faire_…"

"_Infamous_," Elizabeth reasserted stubbornly, "subjects right under her nose." She paused, wrinkling her nose once more as if she had been reminded of his offending odor merely by the mention of her aristocratic nose.

"Go ahead and admit your fondness for me, Lizzie. It will do you some good to have it off your…bosom."

She shook her head seemingly exasperated, "I don't know why I should be fond of you."

_Oh, but you clearly are_. He wagered he was her favorite subject, whether she was comfortable with that fact or not.

"What exactly were you doing here, Jack?"

He was not ready to admit that he had come for her. Unless admitting to such a thing helped him achieve his goal, he had no intention of telling her. "Had you heard I lost my _Pearl_?" he asked, attempting a redirection.

"A tragedy, yes, but you won't find it tucked in the harbor here."

"Didn't imagine I would," he said with a shake of his outstretched boot that jostled her skirts.

"Nor under my skirts," she said flatly.

"Pity," he observed, raking her with his gaze once more. "Lost, but then found. She's in me hands again, I assure you."

"And yet you _paddled_ into town."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "The Pearl is currently _indisposed_ if you will."

"Indisposed?"

"It will take goats and trumpets and all manner of," he paused, eyes wide as he wiggled his fingers at her evocatively, "such things to bring her back. Gibbs and I are bending our minds to it."

"In England?" she asked with false sweetness.

"Me compass is broken."

"And you're wandering aimlessly?" she asked, tilting her head in thought.

"Not aimlessly exactly. There was an aim, more or less. A rather amiable aim if I have my way."

Elizabeth laughed and reached out to swipe at his belt, where the compass hung.

"Ah, ah, ah," he said, grabbing her wrist and wagging a finger at her. "Not the effects, darlin'." He drew his thumb over the smoothness of her wrist, watching as her lips parted slightly. "Do you imagine I'll get my way, Lizbeth? Is this our opportune moment?" he drawled lazily.

"I have no interest in your _effects_," she replied, her voice low and smooth.

It had been much too long, Jack considered, shifting, suddenly uncomfortable on the seat.

She jerked her arm free of him and touched the necklace at her neck, drawing his gaze to her _décolletage_, which might have been her intention for all he knew. She was a cruel woman, he thought with cheerful amusement. A tease, a tormentor, a killer of pirates. A pirate playing at being a lady in the countryside of England.

"A 'thank you' might be in order," she observed.

"What was that?" he asked loudly. "I can't hear you above the wheels rumbling in these ruts," he lied. She may not have begged for his life, but she might beg for other things, even a _thank you kindly_.

"You might thank me," Elizabeth pronounced more clearly.

"Ah, it's gratitude you want. Well then," he patted his lap, legs spread wide. "Come here, Lizzie, and I'll be most happy to show you how very obliged I am."

With a huff Elizabeth raised her arm and wrapped on the roof of the coach. The coach immediately began to slow. "You'll get out here," she nodded at the slowing landscape framed by the window.

He pouted, appealing to her with upturned palms. "You can't be serious, darlin'."

"Oh, I most surely can be," she assured him as the carriage rolled to a stop and she grabbed the door handle. "Out, Jack."

He bent forward, peering out the window before she threw the door open. "What's the point of saving my skin if you only meant to dump me in the middle of bloody nowhere?"

"The point was to save you from execution, which I've done. Now our road together ends here."

"Ends? I don't believe that for a moment. What's more, I don't believe you'd like to believe it either. What I believe is that we'll eventually _bump_ into each other," he said, waggling his brows. He might be able to charm her into letting him stay aboard a bit longer. It was bound to be tedious living with her elderly aunt, and he could supply a little excitement at the very least. A great deal more if she was willing. "We haven't even had a chance to get properly _reacquainted_. Haven't consummated our invented marriage, which would be the clever thing to do, as it would certainly lend some weight to our subterfuge should I ever be questioned on the details of our coupling. I'm only thinking of your legal situation, should the pardon be questioned, mind you."

"Very kind of you, I'm sure, but there will be no _coupling_: it wouldn't do to bring you back home to Auntie," Elizabeth responded sarcastically.

"Aye, I'm not fit to bring home to mothers and aunties alike, I'm afraid." Jack would not have minded a night in her auntie's no doubt commodious quarters after weeks in a rig and a week in a gaol, but he could see his charm was failing him. "But that is what carriages are made for, hmm?" he purred.

She cleared her throat, nodding towards the door.

_Unfeeling woman_, he inwardly cursed as he snagged his hat from the seat beside him and swung down from the carriage. A gentler woman might be prevailed upon, but Elizabeth had a steely reserve about her that he suspected only rum and a great deal of luck could successfully overcome.

He turned, his boots scuffing in the dirt, as she leaned forward most temptingly to address him. "You'll find Mr. Gibbs waiting for you at the next post stop. Stay off the road."

She was not only unfeeling, but also a meddlesome woman: apparently his plans had already been made for him and they involved being abandoned by the side of this country road. "Thank you, Mrs. Turner, but I do have some sense," he said, pressing his hat upon his head.

"Not enough sense to keep from being arrested for animal theft," she kindly reminded him. "Mind that you keep out of trouble or do your best to keep from being caught, for I won't risk my neck for you again."

"Wonder that you did at all." Jack gripped the door, waiting to close it. "Give me best to your auntie and the boy."

"Wait, Jack," she said, coming out of the door enough to cover his hand with her own. "What were you _doing_ with the sheep?"

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips with a wry smile, "Well, darlin', we—Gibbs and me—had been at sea for a long time and a man gets lonely, savvy?"


	3. A Felony by Way of Farce

"_Wait, Jack," she said, coming out of the door enough to cover his hand with her own. "What were you doing with the sheep?"_

III. A Felony by Way of Farce

It all began with a flock of sheep.

Sea turtles sounded a good deal more impressive in terms of legendary escapes, but improvisation is a core virtue of piracy and sea turtles were not immediately to be had on the rocky English coast. Sheep, however, were at hand. So, sheep were to be his method of getaway. Except, the sheep ended up being the end of him, rather than his salvation. Never trust four legged land animals. Even horses were suspect.

Although, perhaps it was wrong to blame the animals, he reasoned, dumb beasts though they were. Perhaps he should place the blame squarely on the siren that lured him to this country. That blasted woman would be the death of him yet. Coming to the shores of England had been a feeble idea. Gibbs' poorly concealed displeasure at the plan had done very little to deter him, however, once his mind fixed upon his object—Elizabeth Turner _née_ Swann.

"And just what do you intend to do if 'n when ye meet with 'er, Jack?" Gibbs asked as they dragged themselves from the waist high water onto the rock-strewn shoreline, their Bermuda rig anchored behind them.

He stroked his mustache, contemplating some of the things he had in mind, most of which were considered grave offenses in the eyes of the Church. "Say how-do-you-do just as proper as you'd like," Jack said with an assured wink. "Besides, wouldn't be gentlemanly to speak on what I plan to do with Mistress Turner."

"Are we speakin' of the same Elizabeth?" Gibbs asked, giving himself a good shake like a wet dog.

"I had to fight her off, you know: for the eunuch's sake. She's quite desperately besotted with me," Jack said, pulling off one boot and then another, dumping water onto the beach.

"Rather queer that I never noticed it," Gibbs said flatly.

"You never were terribly perceptive in regards to personal relations, but you've other useful aptitudes," Jack said, clapping his lone shipmate on the shoulder.

The truth of the matter was that Jack never had a plan, other than to locate Elizabeth, who was rumored to live somewhere nearby—a fact that his wildly swinging compass needle sometimes seemed to confirm before whirling upon another unknown destination, perhaps the next adventure, perhaps an abandoned spot of land in the ocean along a well traveled trade route. But then, he was quite used to flying by the seat of his pants, so the lack of a plan did not greatly trouble him. Flexibility had saved his neck more than a time or two.

What troubled him was the lack of rum. They had run out much too long ago. "Try to find some rum for our return trip," Jack added.

"We're more likely to find gin," Gibbs grumbled.

Jack grimaced, his face screwing up in displeasure at the thought. "Cold, inhospitable country with inferior spirits."

"Aye. Listen, Jack, I might have a fondness for Mistress Turner as well, but I hope you don't mean to bring her aboard," Gibbs said, nodding towards their craft. Gibbs never did approve of women aboard ships, but perhaps this rig would be truly too close for comfort with another body on board—a distracting body at that.

"Focus on the rum," Jack waved dismissively; he did not know what his intention was: to present an invitation of piracy, reminisce about former glories, or to enjoy her _company_. "And you might find comfort in the arms of an English lass," he paused to sway towards Gibbs, wiggling his fingers at him, "to make yerself less prickly."

It turned out to be rather difficult to make inquires after Elizabeth. Indeed, a plump maid dashed away from him on the road with a piercing scream, when he approached to solicit information, grabbing up her skirts as if she had seen a specter. His calls of 'darlin',' did nothing to stop her flight. "I wouldn't have stuck her with me sword unless she asked sweetly," he muttered to himself, as he watched her disappear over the horizon.

He looked down at himself appraisingly, only to see the pirate he had expected to see. A rather striking pirate many women found exceedingly pleasing, which led him to conclude that the unwelcoming response must owe to these English girls being flighty sorts. No, the people here were not likely to aid him in any way: he looked too different, dangerous, and altogether unfamiliar. They were as likely to raise a cry as point him in Elizabeth's direction, he wagered. It was clear that he best not keep to the roads, so he slunk about the hedgerows, trying to ascertain how he would discover any news of his fair King. All the while he wished that he had at least one flask of rum at his side with which to warm his bones as his boots squelched through the muddy countryside.

A hue and a cry went up just as the sun was dipping below the sky. Jack intuited that the shouts were directed towards him: before having taken greater care not to be discovered the number of shifty eyes directed at him had not seemed fortuitous. "Bugger," he cursed, dropping down below a stone garden wall. No doubt the frantic female who had fled him earlier that afternoon had spread the word that someone of dubious origins was abroad in the neighborhood or perhaps one of the windows he had peeked into had contained an occupant who found his face worrisome. Now he had been spotted.

"Bugger, bugger, bugger."

But he was nimble and crafty. Harmless English farmhands and milkmaids should be nothing to Captain Jack Sparrow, he assured himself. He skirted along the wall, searching for anything to hide himself away in: a barn, a storehouse, a hovel, even a large barrel would do. Passing by seemingly endless pasture, however, he realized as he ran awkwardly in a crouch behind the wall, hearing shouts moving behind him, that there was not even a tree or boulder in sight.

But there was a sea of wooly, unshorn sheep benignly chewing grass over the wall. If he could not escape these villagers, he might hope to distract them. These sheep would be his leverage.

With a one handed boost, he hopped the stone wall, immediately sending sheep scattering as he landed on the far side with a thud and a jangle of accoutrements. These blasted animals were as easily spooked as the maid he had met on the road, he realized with chagrin: perhaps there had been a good deal of interbreeding between the people and their fauna. He sneered to himself, his mouth and nose screwing up in distaste. How could anyone stand to work with animals? He would take a dishonest pirate any day over these skittish creatures. Though their cowardice might be to his benefit.

He scanned the padlock for a gate, and spying one across the field, he ran, sheep making way for him with plaintive bleats as he cut a path through them. "This way if you please," he urged them with a windmilling of arms meant to shepherd them in the direction of the gate. His forward motion seemed to have more of an effect on their feeble minds than his waving arms and speech, but it did him good to say something, as he could hear the sound of shouts growing louder. "Come come," he panted, stumbling to a stop before the gate and fiddling with the hook that kept it closed. "You'll want to bleat and cry that way," he pointed a ringed finger towards the advancing villagers, which he imagined he would be able to see coming over the hill with torches and pitchforks at any moment, as he swung the gate open.

But the dumb beasts did not follow his command. Growling, he ran behind a dozen of them and began shooing them towards the gate. Fear encouraged them where reason had failed, and being of the mob mentality, other sheep began to rush through the open gate as well. He sang along with their bleating, "Bah, bah, a black sheep," although there was not a black sheep to be had amongst this throng. "Have you any wool?" He leaned precariously to his left as one sheep brushed right against him in its mad dash towards freedom.

He knew the feeling.

"Thank you kindly," he said with relief, as a good portion of the panicked flock had made their way through the gate, and he hopped the wall once more.

He would hide behind the wall and make his way along it until darkness fell, when he hoped to slip back towards the road. Meanwhile the villagers would be busying themselves retrieving their wandering sheep. Perhaps he would find Elizabeth before the morn dawned and he might slip inside her bedchamber, slip inside…

At least, that was the hastily constructed plan that placed more emphasis on hoped for pleasures than material details. But as he crouched down on the opposing side of the wall, congratulating himself on yet another escape, he saw a pair of well worn work boots before him. He looked up, hoping they were not attached to the owner of said sheep. His luck had run out: they were attached to a very large farmer, who was no doubt the proud owner of these wooly creatures.

"Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full?" he tunelessly sang with a sheepish grin.

The man seemed unmoved by merriment and wholly displeased with Jack. He grabbed him by the collar, hauling him upright and giving him a hard shake. "Thief."

"On the contrary, I promise you that I have no use for your bloody beasts," Jack quickly assured the ruddy, blond farmer from his position an inch off the ground with his coat about his ears. "Wenches and rum, mate, wenches and rum are all I'm lookin' for."

"Who are you?" the man demanded with another shake.

"John Smith," Jack said wiggling his dangling legs and bestowing upon the man his most winning smile.

But his songs and oaths and plain names and smiles did him no good here, and apparently being unsatisfied with merely handing him over to the authorities, the man delivered a blow that brought darkness upon Jack as quick as a thunderclap splits the silence of a dark night.

That was how Captain Jack Sparrow came to be most unfairly and ignominiously incarcerated on the felonious charge of sheep theft. If he was going to swing, he wished it would have been for something less farcical. Or at very least something for which he was guilty.


	4. A Mistaken Misdemesnor

_That was how Captain Jack Sparrow came to be most unfairly and ignominiously incarcerated on the felonious charge of sheep theft. If he was going to swing, he wished it would have been for something less farcical. Or at very least something for which he was guilty._

IV. A Mistaken Misdemesnor

Hands tied before her, Elizabeth shuffled through the crowd behind her gaoler. It was hard not to dwell upon the fact that after all the perceived wrongs she had done in this life, she was going to be punished publicly for something she had not truly done.

She only hoped that Jamie was as far away as possible from this scene of indignity. She had whispered tales of piracy in his ear anytime her aunt was not within earshot, but this held none of the potential romance of her former exploits. This was purely shameful, and with a never seen father weighing upon him, Elizabeth did not want her boy also to bear the burden of feeling ashamed of his mother.

Someone pushed her from behind, causing her to stumble. She would have ground out an insult at the rowdy crowd member, but the shove came at the same time as someone began to shout, 'fire.' A shout that was quickly taken up by others as she was finding her footing and being tugged resolutely forward to the whipping post. Elizabeth glanced to her left and saw billowing, white smoke beginning to rise over the village.

"There's a fire," she shouted at the gaoler, who continued to trudge forward, despite the agitation of the crowd around them. "A fire, you brute!" she screeched, but her screams were cut short when a hand clamped firmly over her mouth.

She considered biting down, when a tanned hand reached for the hemp rope her gaoler pulled her along with and gave it a significant jerk. It was now her gaoler's turn to lose his footing as well as his grip on the rope. The hand slipped from her mouth just as the stranger showed himself at her side and clobbered the gaoler over the head with the butt of a flintlock.

The hooded figure pressed a ringed finger to her lips, indicating quiet and pulled her quickly backwards out of the main street. Crashing into him, he knocked them flat against the outer wall of a building. As they leaned there for a moment, she could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back, and his arm held her firmly about the waist, hand splayed across her middle. "Follow me," the man hissed into her ear, his hand finding her lashed together ones.

She would not have followed so readily, but she hurried behind this supposed stranger, as he dashed between the timber framed, wattle and daub houses, because she thought she knew that voice. Her heart thudded in her ears at the thought that she might be right or that she might be wrong. "Who are you?" she finally demanded as they wended through the buildings.

With his free hand, the man uncovered his head, throwing back his hood and flashing her a quick smile of white and gold. "Your favorite piratical subject, love. Quick now," he urged her, tugging harder.

"Jack," she exclaimed under her breath. She had never thought to see him on these shores again after she had left him roadside, and to appear at this very moment, when she was about to face her punishment. It defied all logic. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving you, darlin'. Or was that not obvious?"

"How did you…?" she attempted to question him, but she was finding it difficult to catch her breath. The smoke had not drifted in their direction, but they were moving more quickly than she was accustomed and she was very nearly in shock. If she had a moment to draw breath, she might tell him how very happy she was to see…

"I'm Captain Jack Sparrow," he drawled, preening with pride, as he waggled his brows at her.

_I should have known_. Praise and thanks would only make him more unbearable: there was no use telling him he truly was a sight for sore eyes this time. As the years slipped by, she increasingly missed more than just Will: she missed the sea, the wind, the sunshine. Jack. And while her thoughts often turned to him, she had maintained no real hope of ever seeing him again. All the rest of it had been lost to her, but perhaps he was not. It would do no good to let him know, but she furtively, hungrily raked her gaze over his form to drink him in, freedom and irreverence in the flesh. _Yes, the same ridiculous manner of running away_. Unmistakably him, and she could not have been happier for it.

Saving her had been a good deed to add to the growing list of good deeds accomplished by Jack Sparrow, but she suspected that there was a great deal of mischief achieved as a consequence of her rescue. "Did you set fire to the village?" she panted. Arson was a felony. Jack could swing for saving her from a public scourging. _And then how will I save you?_

"Me?" he asked, sounding scandalized. "That doesn't sound like me."

Elizabeth was not so sure of that. She imagined him capable of any number of things, most a great deal more shocking than arson, but also startling capable of heroics.

As they came to the ridge that overlooked the sea, he skittered to a stop so suddenly that Elizabeth knocked into his shoulder with an inelegant grunt. "A little warning," she mumbled, tossing her head in order to get a fallen lock of hair out of her eyes.

"Hold your hands out," he said hurriedly, as he pulled a knife from one of his belts. "You'll need your balance climbing down."

She did as instructed, baring them to his knife, and he began to saw away until the rope fell away.

"Lively now, Elizabeth," he instructed, holding out a hand to her, which she refused to take with a shake of her head even as she peered over the precipitous edge and could reason through why he might want to help her.

"No, thank you," she said somewhat curtly. She would make it down this ridge under her own power. There had been quite enough rescuing for the day. _I'm no damsel_.

"Suit yourself, but you might be a little more grateful. A little more pleased to see me," Jack sighed dramatically, as he began to climb down, hands skimming over rocks as he found his footing. "I just performed a most heroic act on your behalf. Saved your little highborn hide."

"I was doing just fine, thank you," Elizabeth said, rubbing each reddened wrist in turn.

"Oh, yes…most impressive. I'm sure you would have saved yourself there any minute."

Jack snaked back through a switchback, passing just below her, and despite her current disheveled state, she still attempted to imperiously look down her nose at him. "You hardly saved me from much."

"Oh no," Jack said, waving his hands, "just a beating. You might even _like_ that sort of thing."

She blinked, unsure of his meaning, but his tone was undeniably suggestive. "Of course not," she answered stiffly, finally hurrying after him.

"Are you sure? I can take you back if you'd prefer," he gestured back up the ridge.

"I only meant to say that it wasn't as if I was about to be dancing at the end of a rope."

"Ah, yes. How many times have you saved me from an untimely death?"

"More times than I've condemned you to one," she said, feeling just a little contrite. He had saved her from humiliation after all, and she was very happy to see him. If only he did not have to act so very impossible.

"Are we being followed?" she asked, tossing an anxious look over her shoulder.

"It won't matter if you slip and tumble to your death," he reminded her, reaching back to grip her elbow.

He was right: the stones beneath her feet were loose and she could not afford to crane her head about for any reason. _Eyes ahead_, she scolded herself.

They picked their way down the rest of the way to the sea, where she could see a weathered jollyboat resting upon the shoreline. Escape seemed close enough to touch, but as the ridge gave way to the flats of the beach line, it opened up into a field of large rocks, and by this time Elizabeth was nearly out of breath, only being habituated to running after a six year old and not away from the law. It was made worse by her skirts, which were weighing her down as she tried to clamber over the rocks that were slippery with a thin layer of red algae. She noticed Jack's gaze taking in her struggle from time to time, but whether amusement hid behind it, she could not tell.

Jack climbed over the last jagged outcropping in their path and turned towards her. Without asking her leave, he gripped her about the waist, lifting her up and over. Pausing with her in his arms, he squeezed her tightly to his chest, so that she was nose to nose with her rescuer for a moment, her chest rising in time with his. She stared into his impossibly dark eyes, feeling the puff of his breath ghosting across her lips. She was certain he was about to kiss her. She swallowed, letting her eyes drift shut…

They flew open just as quick, when he set her down with exaggerated care.

"There you go, my dear," he said lazily, as he stood before her, hands on hips, one brow cocked, and a devilish grin quirking his lips.

She shook out her skirts with more force than altogether necessary. "Thank you," she responded, hoping her pale, sun free skin was not betraying the blush she felt burning from the inside. _Little chance_.

But he would not get the best of her. No one would ever get the best of her.

Elizabeth picked up her muddied skirts and strode purposely with her head held high across the last stretch of pebbled beach to the jollyboat. Accepting Jack's assistance one last time, which involved more grasping about her waist than she considered entirely necessary, she crawled into the craft, and Jack shoved off, rowing out into the deeps.

"You promise you've a ship stashed somewhere?" Elizabeth asked, still scanning the ridge for the appearance of people searching for the escaped prisoner. "We won't get far in this mighty rig."

"Oh, I promise, love. She's as large as life around this bend…tucked out of sight."

Indeed, as they pulled far enough away from the coastline and began rowing north, the ship's hull came into sight. "Your _Pearl_! She's no longer _indisposed_."

"After no small amount of effort, I assure you," Jack said, pulling at the oars. "Took _years_. The trumpet is not as easy an instrument to master as you would imagine."

Elizabeth ignored his inanity as she felt relief wash over her. It seemed as if nothing could go wrong with the familiar silhouette of the _Black Pearl_ drawing near. Once aboard, they could make fast from this place. _Fastest ship in the Caribbean_, she smiled to herself. "She looks _brilliant_," she whispered in awe, leaning forward in anticipation of walking her decks once more, of smoothing her hands over the rail, of feeling the rhythmic rock of the water beneath her feet.

"Damn if you're not happier to see the ship than you are me."

She turned a bright smile on him. "In this one thing you and I are just the same."

He chuckled, "Aye. Two peas in a pond, darlin'." He paused in the rowing to grasp the skirts covering her rump and unceremoniously yank her back flat in the boat. "You're liable to upset us in your enthusiasm."

Pouting slightly at the affront to her person, she kept her eyes leveled on the _Pearl_.

"Just remember who's captain when we get onboard, savvy?" he insisted sternly, as the ship loomed closer.

"Steal your _Pearl_ from you? I wouldn't dream of it."

…

Gibbs extended a hand to Elizabeth as she straightened up on the deck, brushing out her mussed skirts.

"Mr. Gibbs," she said cheerfully enough despite the unusual circumstances prompting her appearance upon these decks.

Jack could see that Gibbs was attempting not to betray his surprise at the state of her. She would be just as surprised if she saw Gibbs in action: he had lost the spring in his step and there were more spry first mates to be had certainly. Jack thought it would not be long before Gibbs would need to turn landlubber, although he would be loathe to lose him. A man as loyal as Joshamee Gibbs was a rare thing not only amongst pirates but also among all men, and therefore, Jack believed that loyalty outweighed agility for the moment.

"Mistress Turner. It's a pleasure to see ye again," Gibbs responded, sounding remarkably courteous.

"Oh, yes, _oh_ _so_ _pleasant_, but we haven't come for tea, Mr. Gibbs. The law is quick on our heels. We best pull away from here with all haste," Jack said, tossing aside his hooded cape and reaching for his hat, which one of his crew had dutifully held for him whilst he went ashore to rescue Elizabeth. Setting the tricorn upon his head, he swung to address the men about them, "All hands on deck, heave to."

He grinned to himself, sashaying a few steps towards the quarterdeck. Captain of the _Pearl_, wind soon in their sails, and Elizabeth standing on her decks: it was a good day. When he did not sense the flurry of activity that he had expected about him, however, he glanced back over his shoulder. A huddle of pirates stood about Elizabeth, mired to the deck and gawking as if they had never seen a muddied lass before.

Her brows were drawn in confusion. "Your captain has given you orders," she said with the characteristic strictness of one who has captained herself.

"Aye, listen to the cap'n," Gibbs shouted. "Move your feet or you'll be kissin' the gunner's daughter."

Most of the pirates shuffled away to their tasks, but one scrawny lad still lingered at Elizabeth's side, looking twitching and over curious.

"What be your complaint, matey?" Jack called to the lad, turning hands on hips to address him.

The lad leaned forward presumptuously into Elizabeth's personal space, and Jack frowned, ready to pull him back if necessary.

"Are you really the Pirate King?"

Elizabeth laughed, looking her down her nose at the young sailor, "I am, unless there has been a _coup d'état_ in my absence about which I am unapprised. Not unlikely, I suppose, given the questionable loyalty of those over whom I rule. But yes, your captain made me king. Has he not told you?" she asked, smiling towards Jack with a twinkle he had not yet seen this day.

"Many times," the lad eagerly responded.

Jack's mouth twitched. Surely Elizabeth knew that he enjoyed a boast and that his stories about their exploits were nothing more than that—one of many boasts, and nothing special. Whether a story about sweeping Elizabeth from the decks of the _Flying Dutchman_ or a story about sea turtles, it was all the same in terms of what he considered noteworthy. She was nothing exceptional in his long history. His compass did not _always_ point to these shores. _Only half the time_.

"And married to Davy Jones?" the lad continued, his voice dropping so low that Jack had to sway forward to hear what passed between them.

"Davy Jones is dead," Elizabeth answered firmly, the light leaving her eyes.

The young lad looked to his captain for confirmation and Jack nodded. "In the arms of Calypso or feeding the fishes, as you will be if you don't begin to move your feet," Jack finished with a growl, showing him the back of his hand.

For a moment Jack stood silently facing Elizabeth as the crew crawled like ants over the deck. A pall had fallen over her countenance, her mouth set with an unnamed emotion.

"Do you suppose they're together for all of time?" she asked quietly.

"Surely you don't concern yourself about Davy Jones? He killed your Will, Elizabeth," he reminded her softly.

Elizabeth looked somewhat chastised. "No, course not." She turned, resting her fingertips on the rail and gazing out over the water. "I suppose I just wonder…" she trailed off, leaning on the rail. "I sometimes dwell on how things might have ended differently."

"Waste of time, my dear, dwelling on what _might_ have happened. I might have ended up in the bellies of the Pelegostos or forever lurching about the Locker, but I did not, hmm?" Jack moved towards her and settled one hand into the small of her back, pointing across the sea with the other. "We needn't choose to be unhappy, Lizzie. There is a whole world to explore."

"Yes, there is. Isn't there?" she mused.

This was his opportune moment. He fiddled at his waist, unhooking his compass. "Where would you like to go?" he asked, flipping it open and holding it before her. "You can set our course."

Looking down at it with pursed lips, she asked, "Is that your odd compass?"

"Course it is."

She shook her head, "Put it away. I don't wish to see where the needle points."

That only increased his desire for her to hold the instrument, but he snapped it closed and placed it back on his hip. There were other ways to determine her wants. He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as he considered her. "You're awfully young…"

"Am I?" she interrupted, casting her gaze on him without turning her head.

Jack licked his lower lip, "Aye." Not as obscenely young as she once had been, but young nonetheless. Too young to be wasting her life. Too young not to enjoy herself or be enjoyed.

She slipped from his grasp, stepping further down the rail and just out of his reach. Mayhap she was a witch and could hear his treacherous thoughts.

"Should you like to take the wheel, my liege?" he whispered, exaggeratedly leaning forward until he was within an inch of her ear, his breath stirring strands of her blonde hair. Playing at captain if only for a moment would no doubt cheer her, sweep away these gloomy thoughts, remind her of what the _Pearl_ had to offer, of what _he_ had to offer.

"Your crew is watching us," Elizabeth said, without glancing about to affirm her statement. "They'll think it strange if I take the wheel of your precious ship."

"Not strange. Generous, Lizzie. I'm the soul of generosity, munificence, _largeness_."

She laughed to herself, pulling away from him, "Largesse?"

"That too," he winked, adjusting his belt.

As the corner of her mouth quirked in amusement, she tossed off a remark that sent his blood rushing, "Perhaps I will infringe on that generosity later, Captain."

He slid his hand over the rail languorously, "Oh, I _hope_ you do, darlin'."

…

Having gotten the _Pearl_ underway and a safe distance from the English shoreline, he retired to his cabin. He had watched from the wheel as Elizabeth had reverently touched what seemed like every square inch of the ship before slipping into his cabin as the sun began to dip below the waters. Ever since then his thoughts had not been with the water and wind; they had been focused on joining her there within.

When he entered, she was sitting at his chart table, elbows propped upon it in an unladylike manner and the oil lamp casting shadows across her face. He frowned as he took in her state once more. Tangled hair, dirtied face and hands, and her skirts muddied half way up. She was in need of rum. "Here," he said, grabbing up a handy bottle, he pulled the cork free with his teeth and set it before her. "Now you have plenty of rum. How much luck do you think I'll be needin'?" _Rum and luck_. That is what he had always imagined it would take to make any headway with Elizabeth.

"Hmm?" she hummed somewhat sleepily.

There was no Caribbean heat to blame for her fatigue, but she may not have been sleeping well in the keep before her appointed whipping day. When he had come to these shores upon his errand, he had not thought to find her incarcerated. His initial reaction at the discovery was anger of the strangest sort. The sort of anger he usually only felt when something had been taken from him, but Elizabeth was not his and his errand was evidence of that—a fact that irked him greatly. Indeed, he would not have accepted the role of errand boy if it had not occurred to him that this chore would give him another opportunity to work upon Elizabeth's virtue.

Once he discovered her imprisonment and planned punishment, there had been no question as to whether he would rescue her from her fate: he may not have had wholly honorable intentions in coming here but he would not allow someone to damage Elizabeth's pride or fine flesh.

It appeared, however, that one aspect of his efforts was somewhat tardy. "How did this come to be, Lizzie?" he asked, turning her cheek bedecked with a pink welt to the side with a brush of his index finger.

"A rather enthusiastic gaoler."

Grabbing a chair, he turned it around and sat down at the table, straddling the chair and draping his arms across its back. "I meant," he lied, while pushing the untouched bottle an inch closer to her, "how did you come to be on the verge of a public whipping?"

Elizabeth's fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, as she watched him through half-hooded eyes. "I was picked up for vagrancy."

Jack drummed his fingers on the table. "Vagrancy?"

"Yes," she said, lifting the bottle to her lips and taking a swig. Her face screwed up as she swallowed.

"Someone mistook you for a pauper?" he asked, cocking one brow in disbelief. "Or did your dear aunt really allow you to fall into poverty?"

The bottle came down on the table with a thump, but Elizabeth made no response.

"Vagrancy," Jack repeated, as something began to dawn on him. "_Vagrancy_, you say?"

"Yes, Jack," she replied in clipped tones.

He shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "What were you wearing when you were mistaken for this misdemeanor of yours?"

"As you see," she gestured to her stained silken dress in golden tones that no pauper would wear.

_Yes_, he understood the confusion now. "You were snagged down on the docks?" Elizabeth merely squinted in displeasure as Jack barked a laugh. "How much coin did they think you were chargin'?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, answering sharply, "A good deal, I suppose."

"Not your average doxy," he agreed. Jack placed his hand over hers, still wrapped around the neck of the bottle. "You're worth a dear price," he purred.

"There isn't enough rum onboard, Jack," she flatly responded to his unspoken offer, releasing herself and the bottle from his grip as she brought it to her lips with a slight jerk.

There never seemed to be enough rum when it came to Elizabeth. Or perhaps he was not in possession of enough luck. _Bloody frigid woman_.

"Did it not occur to you to simply inform the authorities whom you were? Dutiful niece of Auntie Swann, pillar of society?"

"I couldn't bring my true name into it. You should understand that, _John Smith_," she smiled lightly, resting the bottle in the hammock of her lap, where he would like to find shelter.

"No, I don't suppose you could, but I'd rather think you can't go home to your auntie now either, can you?" he mused. "I'll never get to meet her, and I was so intrigued, having been denied the pleasure once. I fancied that I might have had better luck with other lasses in the Swann family."

Elizabeth bit her lip, "My aunt is over fifty."

"Never mind her age, you jealous harpy. Is there a family resemblance?"

She merely laughed softly in response, brushing back a tangled lock of hair.

"In your Auntie's absence—now that that avenue is closed forever—I shall simply have to continue to attempt to breach the former Miss Swann," Jack gestured animatedly with a waggle of his brows.

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "Forever? Jack, you have to take me back. Jamie is with her."

Jack stroked his mustache, considering. "I think it's best you come with us, love, unless you intend on going through with your whipping. You can make the _Black Pearl_ your home."

"Not without Jamie," she said determinedly.

"It's your intention the boy turn pirate?"

"That isn't my intention at all, but I won't stand to be parted from him."

Jack sighed; he had been unsure how devoted a mother Elizabeth was. It would have been a great deal easier if she had decided to cast all ties aside and sail alongside him unencumbered. As the pirate he imagined her to be. He held the boy in no scorn, however, and he had been raised upon one ship or another for a good portion of his young life. There was no reason they could not all sail together. "Nor shall you be. We'll nab him in the night if need be."

"Then I hope you are better at child-nabbing than you are at sheep theft."

"I have never made a practice of either," Jack admitted with a grin. "Although, I doubt he'll bleat if it is his dear mum who comes to fetch him as Auntie saws logs, hmm?"

Elizabeth pressed her lips, the light returning to her eyes. "Jamie would think it a grand adventure. _Real pirates_," she whispered conspiratorially. "He's spirited. You'd like my boy."

"What makes you think I can abide children?" he asked gruffly.

"Because you are one," she responded without a moment's thought. "He's seven. You'd get along famously."

Jack began to count his fingers under the table, certain it could not have already been more than seven years since the _Flying Dutchman_ had traded captains. _Surely the boy should be four at most_. How many years had it been since he had last seen her upon these shores? Half that many?

"It would be nice to be at sea again," Elizabeth said a little wistfully before taking another swig from the rum bottle.

Seeing the faraway glint in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks, Jack wondered momentarily if she had spoken the truth when she had said that there was not enough rum. Perchance she could be persuaded. If she could be convinced to sail with him, be reminded of the freedom of it. Mayhap time would wear away her resolve and her unspoken devotion to her undead husband. It could be that the sea still called to her as persistently as it did to him. It could be that he might profit from that wanderlust. "Freedom, Lizzie dear…" he whispered. "Think of all the trouble we could find."

"Mountains of it," Elizabeth smiled against the rim of the bottle before swallowing another mouthful.

"Think of all the swag," he said, wiggling his ringed fingers at her.

"Mountains of that too." Chuckling, she tipped her head to the side, running a hand down the white curve of her neck.

He shifted, wanting to do the same to her, but holding back for the opportune moment. _Patience_. The very air of the cabin seemed to buzz with potential.

"Why, I could be bedecked like the Queen of Sheba," she finished smoothly.

"Aye, the fearsome Pirate King in all her finery. A very bonnie pirate lass," he added, nodding appreciatively towards her. "That reminds me," he said, digging in his pocket. With a toothy grin, he withdrew his prize and dangled it before her. "Hold out your hand, Lizzie dear. There's a good girl," he said, letting the string of pearls clink softly as they pooled in the palm of her hand.

"What's this?" she asked, looking from the necklace to him two times in quick succession.

"Swag. Picked it up while I was in town. Shall I help you?" he asked ready to come to his feet so as to drape the trinket about her fine neck, but her fist closed around the pearls and she turned eyes on him that glittered suddenly quite fearsomely.

"I'd need a sword."

"We'd get you a fine sword from Toledo, light and well balanced," Jack hummed, pleased beyond words with her spirited turn. "So long as you didn't use it on me, Lizzie."

She raked her lower lip through her teeth, "Come now, Jack. You trust me better than that, don't you?"

Her voice seemed laden with a heady invitation and Jack sat forward expectantly. He knew better than to trust her, but that was part of the appeal. He liked being slightly off balance, he enjoyed a proper challenge. "Adventure by day, _pleasant company_ by night," he offered, speaking slowly, seductively.

"Oh you'd see to that, I'm sure," she smirked, as she draped the necklace across the table before her.

"On my honor as a pirate, I would indeed."

Returning to her drink, she drank deeply and then considered the bottle for a moment. "But I couldn't," she finished, licking rum from her bottom lip.

He did not truly believe that. Elizabeth only needed a bit more friendly persuasion. Jack focused on that full lip for a moment before pressing her, "And why is that, darlin'?"

"Will wouldn't want Jamie to be a pirate."

_Will bloody Turner_.

Did it not occur to Will or Elizabeth that the boy was the child of pirates? Moreover, Elizabeth had no doubt been engaging in some illicit act when she had been plucked from the docks. He frowned, his brow furrowing in thought. "What _were_ you doing on the docks in all your frippery?"

"Conducting business," she paused, glaring coldly at him as the one corner of his mouth curled lasciviously in expectation of her explanation. "Not of that sort. I was truly misapprehended."

Disappointed, Jack gestured impatiently for her to continue, saying, "Yes, yes, a true innocent."

"I was there on _personal_ business."

"I'll be crushed," he solemnly swore, clutching his chest, "if you tell me you've taken a Royal Navy lad as a lover. I'll take me pearls back, Lizzie. God's honest."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "I receive letters from Will at the docks, but whomever he entrusted his quarterly letter to did not arrive on our appointed day. My repeated inquiries amongst unsavory characters drew unwanted attention."

He stood, stretching and scratching lazily at his chest through the linen of his shirt, feigning disinterest in her domestic tales, as she was now skirting around an issue he would rather not address. Redirection was necessary: "We'll get the boy on the morrow. Time for bed," he said, holding out a hand to her. He would see in a moment whether there had been enough rum, for there was only one bed he intended on offering to her—his own.

Elizabeth did not take his hand, but regarded him warily. "Hold on one moment. What were _you_ doing? You didn't answer me straight earlier. What are you doing on these shores at all? Why would you risk your neck and your _Pearl_ by coming here again?"

This was exactly the thing he had no wish to discuss with her now that he potentially had her all for his onesies aboard the _Pearl_. Jack shrugged, trying on what he hoped was an guiltless look. "I imagine we're just bumping into each other as we always have. Lodestone might be involved."

"Do you have a letter for me, Jack?" Elizabeth demanded, standing up and nearly knocking her chair over. "Damn you!" she said, pushing his shoulder, when he failed to respond. "You were late."

Jack patted his side where a pocket watch might hang on a more gentlemanlike man. "I don't keep much to a schedule, love. My apologies."

"Why would he ever give a letter to _you_?"

"Because he couldn't very well ask me to sing you a song, when I don't have that pretty soprano voice of his."

Elizabeth groaned in palpable frustration. Little hope she would share a bed with him now, he garnered from her balled fists and flared nostrils. "I suppose," he continued, "that he was fool enough to trust me. A bit touched in the head, darlin', to trust a pirate with a precious thing."

Elizabeth's face was coloring in anger. "Don't tease me. That letter _is_ precious, Jack. It is very important to me."

"You may have the letter," he assured her. While keeping the letter from her might have kept thoughts of Young Turner at bay, he did not give two figs about possessing the letter himself. "You misunderstood me: I didn't mean the letter." It was a different precious thing he had a mind to keep.

She was pretty in a snit, flushed cheeks and all. He liked her passion. It promised the existence of passion of a different sort if one was crafty enough, skilled enough, _dexterous_ enough to elicit it.

"You'll hand over that letter, Jack Sparrow, and you will assist me in getting my boy back, so we can safely leave these shores for friendlier climes," she very nearly yelled.

"As promised, my liege," he vowed, holding his hands up in surrender.


	5. A Most Felonious Crime

"_You'll hand over that letter, Jack Sparrow, and you will assist me in getting my boy back, so we can safely leave these shores for friendlier climes," she very nearly yelled._

"_As promised, my liege," he vowed, holding his hands up in surrender._

V. A Most Felonious Crime

"You'll hand over that prisoner," Elizabeth barked, pointing the flintlock at the French gaoler's temple and looking downright fierce.

The portly fellow raised his trembling hands in surrender.

"He doesn't speak the King's English, Lizzie." Jack spoke evenly, as if Elizabeth's appearance here with a pistol in her hand was the most normal occurrence in the world, but in truth, he was having trouble gauging if she was one of his fantasies come to life or truly flesh and blood. It felt as if he was fresh from the Locker once more.

She had been still been sore with him—even after successfully nabbing her boy right out from underneath Auntie Swann's nose—when he had left her on that spot of land with Jamie to start afresh. As unforgiving as a tempest, she had been, for his having withheld Will's letter and unintentionally bringing mischief down upon her. So while he had dreamt of a rescue by Mistress Turner, her willingness to do so was not unremarkable. Nor could he fathom how she had come to hear of his plight.

"He understands this," she said, shaking the pistol at the gaoler, as the man fumbled with the ring of keys. "And, you know I never thought to use my accomplishments in such a manner, but my governess did teach me French," she shrugged.

"I'm sure you're _very_ accomplished in all manner of things," Jack agreed.

"_Dépêchez-vous_," she said, the gun pressing to the man's temple.

The gaoler seemed to be rather terrified of Elizabeth, which was leading Jack to lean towards the authenticity of this vision of femininity before him—_lovely, pleasant female flesh cloaked as a boy_—as opposed to a specter. "He'll befoul himself if you knock him with that again," he advised her, as the man's keys clanked against the heavy lock. "And then we'll have to deal with the smell."

"He already smells like the stables," Elizabeth sneered, pushing the man through the now open door and into the cell.

"As do I, no doubt," Jack admitted as he held up his shackled hands. "Don't forget me shackles, mate."

"_Ses mains_," she urged the gaoler with a nudge of the man's rear with her black boot.

The man stumbled to his knees, uttering a gasped, "_Mon Dieu_," before crawling over to Jack and setting to work on the locks that had chained him to the wall of this Caribbean prison for countless weeks.

The man applied himself to his first shackle, and Jack squinted at Elizabeth, careful to observe every nuance, so as to be perfectly sure: "Lizzie, darlin', would you mind informing me as to whether you're an apparition?"

"An apparition?"

"Yes," he said, attempting to gesture, but as he was not yet unlatched, the attempt was foiled, resulting only in a clank of heavy chains. He scowled at the offending restraints. "I'm somewhat startled, taken aback to see you here before me. So, I gamble to ask, are you authentic, _bona fide_, unfictional?"

"Oh, _oui_," Elizabeth replied with a saucy quirk of her brow. "Perfectly, I assure you."

"You can _parler français_ anytime, Lizzie. I like the sound of it on your tongue," Jack observed, looking up over the man's shoulder at Elizabeth's face. How she had entered this gaol successfully masquerading as a lad with her hair in a queue and breeches on, he did not know. After more than a decade since marrying Will Turner in the midst of battle, she was only slightly more womanly in shape, but that face: that was the face of a woman. Perhaps these _mestizos_ were not only terrible cooks but also blind. "But, I always thought you had a talented little tongue."

"You speak boldly," she smiled, angling the pistol so that she could as easily shoot him as the guard, "for someone depending on my goodwill to release you."

"Aye, desperation has made me bold," he confessed as his second hand was nearly freed. "Just watch where you point that, please. I'd like the use of me effects, when I get around to enjoying this little rescue you've mounted."

"I shall take the _greatest_ care," she promised in low tones.

Finally free of his restraints, he scrambled to his feet and grabbed Elizabeth's wrist. "Give me that," he demanded, tearing the pistol from her hand and spinning on the wide-eyed guard. Clocking the man sharply over the head with the butt of the flintlock, the blaggard slumped to the floor with a satisfying thump. That would smart when he awoke, Jack thought with no small amount of contentment. "Ah, how the mighty have fallen."

"I could have done that," she protested with a slight frown.

"Course you could have. You'll find no argument from this quarter on your vast capabilities, but it will make for a better story if I have a share in the heroics," Jack explained screwing up his face apologetically. "Good for the legend, savvy? Here you go, love," he said, offering her back her pistol.

"I managed well enough on my own," Elizabeth still insisted, taking the pistol back and tucking it back into the band of her breeches.

He watched as she slid a rucksack from her shoulder and undid the ties. He let his eyes glide over her, thrilled to the bone to be rescued and to be rescued by one as fair as Elizabeth Turner, widow of the undead captain. "You're quite used to _managing_ for yourself, aren't you, love?" he murmured. He could give her a hand, so she did not have to resort to her own quite so often.

"Here," Elizabeth said shoving half of the black and white bundle she pulled from her rucksack into his arms. "Put these on."

Shaking out the items, he recognized the white habit and black cloak of the Dominicans. "Is there a scandalous story attached to how you came to be possessed of these?"

"There might be."

Pausing, he fingered the rough weave of the fabric, as he watched Elizabeth pull her habit over her head. "Elizabeth, this new attire is a very thoughtful gift and I'm sure I'll look exceptionally handsome in it, but piracy is non-clergyable. Pretending at being a religious man won't save me neck."

"Today you're a Black Friar come to visit those condemned to death," she said, her head coming free of the neck of the habit. "Should anyone try to stop us as we leave this place, you remember to keep your tongue. Smartly now: pull it on, why don't you!"

Jack obediently pulled the habit on, although he had doubts about her plan. Nevertheless, it was a plan, and nothing inspired had yet come to him to supplant it.

Abruptly, she reached over and he thought for a moment that she was going to adjust his habit, but instead she gripped his shoulder and tugged him towards herself, pressing her lips to his in a swift motion. A pleasant wash of feeling and sensation—her lips closing urgently around his lower lip, her nose brushing his as she tilted her head, her hand fisting desperately in the shoulder of his habit, and his uselessly trapped between them, clutching the black hood of the costume meant to free him—was over too quickly for him to react properly, to drop the damn costume, and pull her bodily against him.

What might have been flitted through his mind in a fevered whirl. How he would have smoothed his tongue across her lips, begging entrance, urged a moan from her, insinuated a thigh between hers, grasped her arse. Instead, Jack swallowed thickly, stunned into inaction, as she straightened back up and fumbled with her habit.

"I thought I might be too late," she said matter-of-factly, although she could not quite meet his gaze.

"Still in one piece, as you see," Jack offered, his voice sounding somewhat rough. He could not afford to think on what that kiss meant at the moment. There would be no additional kisses forthcoming if they did not make haste. "Although," he cleared his throat, "not for long if we don't have a suitable plan. You don't think anyone will notice that a curiously handsome lad came in this rat hole and two friars are walking out? Won't the other guards find that an interesting development?"

"What other guards?" Elizabeth asked breezily. "Did you not hear the gunshot? No one should give us any trouble until we're free of these walls."

His eyes grew large. How many people had she killed to free him?

"Don't look so scandalized," she blustered, as she slipped the black hood of the cloak up over her head. "I only had to shoot one in the arm to convince the other to let me bind their hands and feet."

Jack chuckled, as he turned the black cloak to find the front and contemplated the wisp of a girl he had once fished from the sea shooting a man in the arm in order to liberate a pirate, but that girl and this woman were one and the same. The latter had merely become a felon in the meantime. "Did they weep for fear of you?"

Elizabeth squinted at him, seemingly annoyed by what she took to be mockery. She mistook him. While his tone might have been laced with good-natured sarcasm, he truly believed her to be a fearsome thing. It was quite heady to observe. Such a pretty minx. And he liked to congratulate himself that he had spied it in her long before anyone else had taken the trouble to see it—_pirate_.

Her irritation melted away quick enough, and he thought he saw pride setting her eyes agleam. "The plan has worked, thus far, but best be quick before they wriggle free. My plan is solid enough, but my knots are not of Gibbs' caliber, I'm afraid."

"Gibbs' knots are not Gibbs' caliber," he mumbled to himself, successfully hooded as a Black Friar.

Elizabeth froze, her lips parting as her brows knit together. "Do you mean to say? Will didn't say anything about Gibbs…he didn't mention…" she stuttered.

"Rest assured, my dear, as far as I know, in his dotage Gibbs is tending a bar on Antigua. He wasn't onboard. Save your tears for my much abused _Black Pearl _rotting at the bottom of the sea."

"Thank heavens," she sighed, evidently appeased by his speech. Tossing the rucksack into the corner of the cell, she continued, "The loss of the _Pearl_ is a sorry thing, truly, Jack. I know you feel it acutely, but I wasn't prepared to have Gibbs…"

He raised a finger, interrupting her, "Wait just one moment…_Will_?" _Will Turner?_

"Yes, Will's the one who sent me. He came to retrieve your crew and one of your men was not yet quite dead. He heard the man's story and brought it to my shore, so that I might rescue you," she hurriedly explained, slipping back through the cell's door and into the dank hallway.

_Well, that's disappointing_, Jack thought, twitching his nose. To be desired by the _Mister_ Turner and not the _Mistress_ Turner was regretful. He had no wish to demonstrate his gratitude to a eunuch: he wagered that it would be unsatisfying at best.

"How did you think I'd come to hear of your internment on this island?"

"Women's intuition?" he suggested, wiggling several fingers at her, the female in question. "Are you sure you've got that right, love: Will wanted me rescued?" he pressed, following after her.

Elizabeth turned, holding out her hand to him. "No, it's you that have it wrong."

"How curious: it's so rare that I'm wrong," Jack smirked, passing under a grate that let in the first bit of direct sunlight he had seen in months. "Do enlighten me."

He slipped his hand in hers, and thought to raise their clasped hands to his lips, but she hurried them forward resolutely, only pausing to throw him a look over her shoulder that was smugness itself. "Will knew _I_ would want you rescued, and no one better to do it than myself. Plenty of practice, don't you think?"

_Ah_. "You're certainly _my_ favorite liberator, love," he confessed. Will had sanctioned the rescue. He may have sanctioned more.

"These costumes might not work, Jack. We may need to run," she said with a sly smile.

"I have good news for you: it just so happens I'm very good at running away."

…

Pausing only to remove his boots, belts, and sash, Jack collapsed on the bed in the Great Cabin upon Elizabeth's frigate. He sprawled out with legs stretched wide and one arm dangling over the edge, despite having been shown a small compartment beneath the bed, in which she intended him to stow away for the majority of the voyage, safely out of sight should they be boarded. There was no visible place for him, the escaped prisoner, upon this merchant vessel. In that same vein, Elizabeth had changed into a gown befitting a merchant's wife and there was a man in silks and a powdered wig that seemed to be playing the part of merchant as he strolled the decks. The hands on deck did not look particularly piratical and Elizabeth assured him that the ship was stocked with clayed sugar bound for Europe. _Could the lass not have had enough forethought to play at being a rum merchant?_

The overly gunned trade ship may have had no place for a dreadlocked pirate, but he had no intention of sleeping in a coffin, in life or in death. If he heard the rattle of sabers, he would climb inside his cubby or do something foolish—something Elizabeth would likely call goodness. But for now he would fall asleep upon a mattress tick to the pleasant rock of the sea.

He did not know how long he had slept when he was awakened by pressure atop his thighs and hands resting against his chest. Despite his lethargy, his reflexes served him well: he moved swiftly to wrap his hands tightly around the slim wrists of the intruder, whose face he could not make out in the darkness.

"I believe you're in my bed, Jack."

He could not make out her face, but he knew that voice. "You plan on stranglin' me for it, love?"

"What a waste my rescue would be then," Elizabeth responded.

Although he slid his hands up Elizabeth's bare arms more for the sake of leisurely perusal than precautionary means, he still would not put it past her to feed him to the sharks even after this interesting, intimate awakening. After all, she had once kissed him to send him to his death. He pushed that thought aside, however, as this was a better way to meet his end than dangling at the end of a rope—certainly less lonely—and he intended on enjoying it.

She wore nothing but her shift, he happily discovered in the process of his thorough examination. He grinned in the dark. _Even better_.

"I don't waste my time, Jack. And if I did you in now, all my efforts," she mused, as she fingered a spot high on his right cheekbone, his scar most likely, "would be for naught."

"You might apply your efforts elsewhere," he offered with a suggestive thrust.

She hummed appreciatively. Running a thumb over his lower lip, she questioned him boldly, "Might I?"

"Do your worst, _pirate_," he teased, nipping her thumb.

When she squirmed forward, bringing herself solidly onto his lap, he could not see her expression, but he imagined she was as proud as Punch of his immediate, instinctual reaction: he growled, his eyes squeezing shut at the feel of her pressed against him. Damning his breeches, he wished that he had gotten in the altogether before falling asleep so that there would be nothing between them at this moment; rubbing himself desperately against her would be untutored, but he was sorely tempted, breeches or no.

Breathing deeply, he regained a modicum of control over himself, so that he might attempt to throw Elizabeth equally off balance. To that end, he seized her shoulders and pulled her down atop him, where he might better kiss and torment her. This position did very little to lessen his own delightful discomfort, however, as she was warm and yielding against his thighs and his chest, and he groaned through gritted teeth when she buried her face in his neck, her hair tumbling over him. Sliding his hands down her back, he gripped her hips and rocked her against his arousal.

Murmuring 'yes' into his neck and pressing warm open mouthed kisses below his ear that made the blood in his veins rush faster, she unfolded her long legs along his, stretching like a cat, as he cupped her arse and captured her lips with his. Rocking her once more, twice, thrice, he slowly explored her warm mouth, their tongue intertwining. He finally released her only to find her breast through her shift, cupping it and running his thump over her tightening nipple. Her exclamations were becoming less intelligible but perfectly comprehensible.

She wanted him. It was a triumph beyond measure.

And yet, he would have more.

He could feel her, soft beneath his calloused fingertips; smell her, sweetly fragranced by rose water with the smell of sea air in her hair; taste her, the salt of her skin and the talc of powder; hear her increasingly voiced arousal, vibrating by his ear; but he could not make out her face in this cabin, on this moonless night. Jack was a greedy man and he wanted it all. He wanted to see her creamy skin against his. He wanted to watch her lose control because of him. He wanted to seek a truth beyond that of want in those brown eyes. A truth that he had dared not hope for, but having escaped death once more, he decided he might as well incline himself towards other wonders as well.

"Light the lamp, darlin'," he rasped, stroking her long, loose tresses, tangling them in his fingers, and twisting a curl about his index finger.

"What?" Elizabeth demanded breathily, her fingers skimming the band of his breeches.

Urgency driving him, he schooled his voice to remain slow and even and to ignore her questing hand. "I'm a visual creature. Light the lamp so that I might look upon you in all your loveliness."

Her hand found the laces on his breeches and toyed with them. "You don't really want me to get up," she whispered throatily, persuasively.

"Oh yes, I truly do," he whispered back. "Although," he observed clinically, running his hands along her side, tracing the swell of her breasts, "perchance it's not worth the bother. If it be true what they say, that is."

She sighed heavily, bringing her head to rest against his chest. "Do you never cease prattling on?" she asked in exasperation, her lips brushing his skin, where his shirt splayed open, inadvertently causing him to consider abandoning his search. A search that might very well end in naught but fool's gold.

Indeed everything primal within Jack cried out to roll her over and be done with such trivialities as lamplight. And the truth. Hike up this shift and bury himself in the mindless embrace of slick warmth. And yet, he dared to seek a greater, more sizable, far-fetched treasure.

"Yes," he mused calmly, his thumb following the curve of her back, "all cats look the same in the dark."

Elizabeth froze, her nails digging painfully and unquestionably purposefully into his shoulders. "Excuse me?" she demanded, sitting upright.

"Don't take offense, but one wench is much the same as another, love," he explained, sounding both appropriately apologetic and apathetic about sharing this humbling news with her.

It was a gamble, he acknowledged, as she stumbled from the bed and moved about the darkened cabin, making small irritated noises and uttering curses as she fumbled about. No woman wanted to think she was one of just a sea of faces, and therefore she was as likely to slip her petticoat and stays back on in response to his insult as she was to bend to his will. _Probably more likely to take insult_, he sighed, and he very much wanted to indulge his prurient fantasies. There was a possibility he had played this all wrong. _Best make nice_.

He had only just opened his mouth, hoping something akin to an apology might spontaneously come forth, when the cabin was illuminated by the striking of a match, thereby saving him from having to speak. His mouth shut quick enough, grateful to be spared. He turned his head to see Elizabeth's face as she lit the oil lamp, silently giving thanks for the old Sparrow luck, for there was not even a drop of rum in sight to aid in the seduction of Mistress Turner. And yet, here she was, lighting the lamp to aid in his visual inspection of her fine form.

She moved towards the bed, carrying the lamp before her. Bending down, she set it atop the bedside table with a slight rattle of its glass shade.

Anticipation coiled in Jack's stomach for the long awaited opportune moment. For some time now he had dreamt that relations with Elizabeth would be unusually gratifying. He imagined that the heightened pleasure of their coupling would not only be due to the extraordinary duration of their incomplete seduction, but also due to his ill-advised stirrings…

_Bah!_ Introspection was tiresome, but he _was_ curious about her truth. He would not mind knowing what moved Elizabeth's heart. Surely one did not repeatedly risk life and limb merely for repartee and stolen kisses. _Surely_. It would not do to simply ask her, however, as neither of them went in much for confessions of any kind, let alone confessions of the heart. He needed proof of another sort.

As she stood beside the bed with pursed lips, however, she made no move to rejoin him, causing him to wonder if he had spoilt the moment and would have to avail himself of the naturally persuasive powers of close quarters beginning on the morrow, when her wrath was no longer so fresh.

Luckily, Jack did not truly believe in lost causes. "In the dark might be one thing, but by aid of light, Liz'beth, no one could say you're not something unto yourself." That was not an untruth: the years had not dimmed her beauty and she was no average wench in spirit either.

"Oh, that's very sweet, Jack," she replied with biting sarcasm, but she sat on the edge of the mattress tick nonetheless. "I suppose you think me rather stupid," she said, rounding off her words with a pinch of his forearm.

"Vicious wench!" he exclaimed, as he jerked in outrage at the grievous attack on his person. "All cats scratch too," he pouted, but his pouting failed to result in proper repentance. Elizabeth had the nerve to roll her eyes. He sighed dramatically, "Stupid? I should think not. That would be a waste of _my_ time, for a brainless wench grows tiresome even in bed." Not that he cared much at the moment about her pert opinions or plucky courage, but soft words might work better on her than an outright request to tend to his aching…

"I'm not sure I believe that," she said, wetting her lips and looking at him suspiciously.

"See? Already showing ample signs of greatness of mind: never wise to trust a pirate."

He made a great show of keeping his arm away from her when she reached for him, but he finally relented and let her smooth her delicate fingers over his pretend hurt. "Do you always get your way?" she asked, nodding towards the lamp.

_With women_, he imagined she meant. "My extensive legend proceeds me," he drawled, dislodging her shift from her shoulder to expose a white shoulder, "but not always, darlin'. You, for example, have been disappointing me wants for years now."

"I couldn't make things too easy: you do like a challenge." She leaned down and moved his arm until she was tucked into his side.

"I like to _win_ at challenges," he amended. "Being disappointed in the outcome _over_ and _over_ again, well, 'tis enough to test the mettle of any man."

She laughed on a sigh. "I must own, I prefer a hard fought challenge that ends in victory too."

The muscles in his stomach twitched and tightened at the hoped for meaning of her words. "By all means, I stand to be tested, darlin'."

Her fingers played in the sparse hair above his breeches, where she had found a patch of exposed skin in the lamplight, and for the moment he let himself enjoy the sensation of her torturing him with her too light touch.

And then the moment dragged on.

"Does the lamp shed too much light on my irregularities in appearance for your taste?" he teased with a tap on her bare shoulder, when her ministrations ceased and she lay quiet in his arms. "I haven't been able to see to my _toilette_ as much as I would like in that most disagreeable gaol." Elizabeth was finicky about personal cleanliness, likely as not owing to having been taught by a prudish governess that it was next to Godliness, and the bucket of water he had scrubbed himself with upon this ship had grown murky much too soon. The titivation of his person was incomplete at best.

"I'm just thinking."

Jack groaned. Thinking, in his experience, was not conducive to consummation. "Cease at once, I beg of you."

She did not listen to him. She so rarely did, _headstrong woman_. "I can't stand to lose one more thing, Jack: I've had my fill, so you'll have to understand if I don't care to imagine a world without you in it."

"See where thinking gets you, love? Nothing but maudlin thoughts," he affirmed. Patting her on her bottom, he instructed her, "You saved me yet again, so we'll have no talk of my much anticipated death. Savvy?"

She nodded wordlessly.

"There's a good girl. Otherwise, I must warn you that we shall have to postpone our rendezvous of the flesh, for I will completely lose my verve, my inspiration, my _joie de vivre_."

"That infamous _largesse_ you've assured me you posses?" she deadpanned.

"Precisely."

She shifted in his arms, splaying a hand across his chest as she murmured, "Well, we certainly can't have that."

"Excellent: it's settled then. I'm not going anywhere presently. Unless of course you plan on tossing me overboard in a fit of pride over my poorly timed wit," he said with false gravity, issuing as much of an apology as he was capable.

"I told you I shan't be murdering you _again_."

Jack grinned. "That's a great comfort."

"Unless," she amended, tapping his chest with her finger, "you become entirely unbearable, in which case, I make no promises."

"Well, the promises of a pirate, lass or no, king or swab, aren't worth much. I would suggest a blood oath as a proper surety for my life, but I have no stomach for recreational knife play and you're no virgin."

"Convinced of that at last?" she mused, alternately pressing light kisses and then blowing against his skin.

"Relieved, more like. Worse than mermaids, damnable virgins. They lure you in with the promise of pleasure and for the price of their maidenheads, they would have your very soul."

Her delicate touch was setting his mind reeling, and while words spilled out, he was not entirely in command of them. Virgins were troublesome, but Elizabeth was terrifying: he knew very well what she would have of him. Will might have been fool enough to hand over his heart in a chest to Elizabeth, but she did not strike Jack as an entirely dependable custodian for such a risky bestowal.

But then again, neither was he, and he sought the same of her.

Elizabeth hummed, tracing a path with her fingers down his chest as her feet bumped his atop the mussed sheets. "Let's think of all the places we might go."

He laced his fingers in the hair at the back of her head and tilted her chin back enough to press a kiss to her temple. _More thinking_, he inwardly protested; although he had to admit that he liked the sound of that a great deal—travelling the world with Elizabeth at his side.

"We'll fetch Jamie and go wherever we like, won't we?" she asked, meeting his gaze in the shifting light.

The world slowed and nearly stopped turning.

He saw what it was he sought, what he hoped to see reflected there, something Will seemingly had anticipated, sending her to him as he had. _Generous to a fault, that rum Will Turner_. The treasure was not plundered at all, although the sacrifice Will had made was no doubt for the benefit of her happiness and not his. The happiness of Captain Jack Sparrow was an unintended happenstance, but he would seize upon the opportunity with ample enthusiasm nonetheless.

"Aye, wherever we like. Always a new horizon." With his little adventuress always close at hand.

They were the only two in this world.

A smile pulled at the corner of her lips as she slid atop him, breasts depressing against his chest. "A pair of felons."

The only two who counted. Alike in good and bad.

"Many times over," he agreed. Indeed, he planned on committing several fresh crimes in bed with her this very night.

Working a slender arm between them, she slid a hand beneath his breeches. "And we'll be happy."

It sounded almost like a threat. Was he ready for happiness of the lasting kind? Not just the fleeting rush of physical pleasure or the flush of victory or a storm survived? For the sacrifice that might entail?

His eyes rolled back in his head as her warm hand wrapped around him. _Oh, so bloody happy_.

"Jack," she breathed, "take off these breeches."

It was easy enough to confess it. "Aye, Lizzie. Anything for you."

THE END


End file.
